Longshadow Hollow
Travellers whisper of a place called Longshadow Hollow, a fog-choked valley tucked between two cleft hills where a black stream seeps out like spilled ink. Hunters say no birds sing there, and no echo answers your call. Travelers who linger too long claim to see lantern lights bobbing in the mist—beckoning them deeper—though those who follow rarely return.
The Orokaar say the valley was cursed long ago, when a wicked warlock was slain there and his ashes scattered across the bog. They call it a wound in the land—where the breath of his dying curse still seeps through the fog. Woodcutters tell of voices on the wind, murmuring bargains or calling names in perfect imitation.
Those few who stumbled out claim the place shifts—trees move, paths vanish, and every step feels watched. They warn: “The Hollow doesn’t want to be found. And those who search for its heart… never do.”
The Orokaar say the valley was cursed long ago, when a wicked warlock was slain there and his ashes scattered across the bog. They call it a wound in the land—where the breath of his dying curse still seeps through the fog. Woodcutters tell of voices on the wind, murmuring bargains or calling names in perfect imitation.
Those few who stumbled out claim the place shifts—trees move, paths vanish, and every step feels watched. They warn: “The Hollow doesn’t want to be found. And those who search for its heart… never do.”
Variations & Mutation
Old folk speak of Deepshade Glade, a sunless valley where the dawn never quite reaches. Between two cleft hills lies a narrow gap, and from it runs a dark stream that stains the stones like ink. The place is always shrouded in mist, thick enough to muffle your heartbeat and hide the path at your feet.
To the Orokaar, it is a forbidden place—where an evil warlock once met his end, his ashes scattered to bind the land and still its breath. They believe his shadow lingers in the fog, drawing the unwary deeper with whispered promises and soft, familiar voices.
Travelers say strange lights drift there, pale as moonfire, floating just beyond reach. Some think they’re spirits. Others say they’re something smarter—something that watches. One woodsman swore the trees themselves turn to face you when you look away.
The locals only give one warning to those passing near: if you see the glade… don’t follow the lights.
To the Orokaar, it is a forbidden place—where an evil warlock once met his end, his ashes scattered to bind the land and still its breath. They believe his shadow lingers in the fog, drawing the unwary deeper with whispered promises and soft, familiar voices.
Travelers say strange lights drift there, pale as moonfire, floating just beyond reach. Some think they’re spirits. Others say they’re something smarter—something that watches. One woodsman swore the trees themselves turn to face you when you look away.
The locals only give one warning to those passing near: if you see the glade… don’t follow the lights.
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